Mar 21

All the same

there must be
a way to see
gravity pulls us down 
sinking to drown
while we look in our past
derived simply from facts
of science
you refuse
in what is real
why we need to last
but why then 
is our past 
the last 
chance we'll get at 
living right
and no
we screwed up
we are based 
upon fight
we can't cut copy and paste
we are you
all the same
seeking fame
for what is few
in this world
we make new
laws and battle and strew
our mess like an infection
is nature
but we are destruction 
a collection 
self centered 
not viable for correction 

Mar 21


Mar 21

Now when

Mar 21


Mar 20

To Coexist

Oct 12

And Yet

There’s a canyon under the road I travel
Always waiting, unseen
I, unaware as the bridge swayed to break 
And under me lured a truth
Something there, I felt
But its steep cliffs fall question
Once slipped, curiosity turned commitment

I saw it once
The glow of something so pure and relatable
It was there when I wiped the dust from my eyes
And I let myself approach it at the bottom of the canyon
As if I could cup it in my hand and call it mine.

Only a few inches away a stream trickled
I tried to step over it
I tried to bypass the clear water
Clear water I am still straining to see through in its muck
With branches and debris I became in part of crashing surge
And I was hit with them 

Until sight was snapped away from the simplicity of shimmering truth 
My mind drowned in it
Weighed down by dripping bricks
Sep 25

Bubbles 3

Aug 25

Very odd poem on young adulthood

The decrepit trees stick up from the swamp upstairs, discarded hairbrushes with the bristles too brittle and broken. It’s the second doorless frame on the right. The one with fresh green paint sliding down in timid rivers trying to find its future in the right split in wood. The old brushes are doing a horrid job detangling the clouded ceiling, though minimum wage isn’t a big motivator, so the clouds are now curly knotted messes bleached over lonely teenager starch blue, and residue in the waxy leaves freshen fingertips dipping into empty perfume bottles. Grass is the remnants of impulsively cut hair finding itself as a natural depiction of its owner rediscovered, trod on only by others and avoided in conversation. Sunsets and happy mountain hugs hang in crooked unison on the raw wood walls amid years of pin-hole constellations marking them. 

No idea what to title this
Aug 25

right back down

(Camels Hump mtn)

The summit were miles become minuscule 
Is a blue fade of a pinprick from fresh cut grass and gravel home 
As you stand there and ponder
That you stood atop said such dome
Burning muscles to reach something breathtaking 
To be back at the bottom by noon
How the view is unstoppable
But that afternoon the view is your room
How you cherish that moment
Only after you’ve grasped that it's real
Because now you’re in the car listening to radio
And it's becoming no big deal
But spend hours inside at the desktop
Or a summer of hot tubs and wealth
And you’ll never reach the top
Of that feeling of pushing yourself
And there is that stubborn expanse of prickly pine trees
Who wonder why we come and go come and go 
When the view from the top is a daily show
You could just stay here ya know?